


Sauntering Vaguely Upward

by charlottemadison



Series: The Longest Night [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Body Swap, Canon Compliant, Corporations are a bitch, Crowley says Ngk, Crowley's Eyes (Good Omens), Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Dialogue Heavy, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Missing Scene, No Sex, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pre-Scene: Body Swap (Good Omens), Teaching Aziraphale to walk like a supermodel, Teen tag for profanity, Tenth Doctor Reference, The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), can be read as asexual, communication is the best, flamingoes, not much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21985987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottemadison/pseuds/charlottemadison
Summary: Solving Agnes's riddle was easy. Swapping corporations was a cinch, in fact they tried it as soon as they arrived at the Mayfair.But a soldiering angel and a demon with snake eyes have a devil of a time managing their first few steps in the wrong bodies. This story is mostly real-time dialogue and Crowley's POV through the first hour or so of the body swap.----------Crowley staggered into the door of the lift with a hollow boom."Owowowow! Shitshitssssshit. Stop this thing!"Covering his eyes with one hand he mashed at the buttons with the other, lighting up floors 5, 7 and 9.Aziraphale reached to steady him but misjudged distance and inertia badly. He lurched and windmilled, and as one leg buckled under the other he spiraled inelegantly to the floor. "Oh. My. Well.""Oh we are so not prepared for this," seethed Crowley in a low growl. He fumbled blindly for more buttons, any buttons."Are you hurt dear boy?""No angel, eyes. Blessed **eyes!** Djyou go thump, I can't see.""Ah. Yes. Mm. Legs.""'S wrong with my legs?!""Nothing, there's just rather a lot of them and they're. Mm. Miscalibrated."
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Longest Night [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1546606
Comments: 230
Kudos: 1152





	Sauntering Vaguely Upward

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second fic ever. I don't have socials, so if you like it, comment or recommend it! Thanks AO3 for so much beautiful fluff! Feel free to share on Tumblr or wherever.
> 
> This is continued from the end of 'Recounting the Deeds of the Day' (the bus ride): https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/51125932 But both vignettes can stand alone as well. It's still in progress, subscribe if you are enjoying it!

Crowley staggered into the door of the lift with a hollow _boom._

 _"Owowowow!_ Shitshit _ssssshit._ Stop this thing!"

Covering his eyes with one hand he mashed at the buttons with the other, lighting up floors five, seven, and nine.

Aziraphale reached to steady him but misjudged distance and inertia badly. He lurched and windmilled, and as one leg buckled under the other he spiraled inelegantly to the floor. "Oh. My. Well."

"Oh we are _so_ not prepared for this," seethed Crowley in a low growl. He fumbled blindly for more buttons, any buttons.

"Are you hurt dear boy?"

"No angel, eyes. Blessed _eyes! ..._ Djyou go thump, I can't see."

"Ah. Yes. Mm. Legs."

"'S wrong with my legs?!"

"Nothing, there's just rather a lot of them and they're. Mm. Miscalibrated."

The lift opened with a bing at the fifth floor instead of the tenth. Crowley felt his way out stiffly, fumbling along the wall with one hand. Aziraphale scrabbled out on all fours clumsy as a newborn moose.

"I can't smell anything," rasped Crowley. "Where the heaven are you? Oh, you're everywhere. I gotta smell for me." The demon stuck his tongue out, remembered its uselessness, and gave an absurdly exaggerated sniff. " _Can_ I even smell me?"

"I'm here Crowley. Just give me a mo. There we -- oomp -- no, wait. Perhaps -- mm." Aziraphale was having little success corralling his gangly limbs. Roping one made another gallop off.

"You're getting _way_ too much visual input, angel. How do you even move?"

"How do _I_ move? How many joints could a body possibly need?" The angel kept getting his feet straight, then launching off his heels too forcefully and teetering over again. "There's no resistance, I'm overshooting everything. I'll hit myself in the face if I raise a finger."

"Yours has too _much_ resistance. 'S like -- hitting the accelerator on a London Bus when I'm used to the Bentley."

Crowley was moving through syrup and could only manipulate one body part at a time. Lift foot, shift shoulders, lower foot, hand along wall, bend elbow, twist torso -- all the joints were independent and refused to harmonize. His spine and hips felt fused into one uncomfortable piece.

And he would _not_ open his eyes, thankyouverymuch, not when it felt like getting toppled by a fire hose for the second time in a day. He groaned. "I'd hoped we might have some sort of muscle memory assist or something, but farewell that. We can _not_ go up to the flat like this. Where're we now?"

"Fifth floor hallway." Frustrated by fruitless attempts to stand, Aziraphale settled in a heap on the floor and had a go at proprioception. He felt his dirty hair, pawed his face and ears awkwardly while he worked his jaw, then rubbed his hands together. The muscles and tendons were too eager to obey him and every small movement was overpowered. He tried raising his sunglasses but only found the arm on his third try; once they were up, his pupils contracted and he hissed involuntarily. "Good graciousss, that's bright."

"Satan, but you sound nothing like me. You'd say 'fucking heaven' not 'good gracious.' For fuck's sake."

"Well I'll work up to it once I can stand. Horses before carts."

Crowley grinned at the delightful thought of how many times Aziraphale's mild voice would be heard swearing today. Then he frowned at the likelihood the actual angel could pull off a single curse in Hell if his life depended on it. And it did.

They were both what Aziraphale wouldn't say yet: _Very Very Fucked_.

Hell was busy disarming malcontented demons and damned, sure, but Hastur and Beelzebub had a grudge to settle _and they knew where Crowley lived_. It would only take two or three minions to slip away for an ambush. And everyone would be looking for an excuse to skip the mêlée and go topside; there'd be no shortage of volunteers to storm the penthouse.

Crowley could not bring his angel home until he was sure they were safe.

And they wouldn't be safe until...well. After the long bus ride from Tadfield, maybe a hotel would be better tonight. Maybe Botswana. Alpha Centauri could be back on the table.

"If it's this bright in here I'll be curious to try your night vision," said Aziraphale.

"You'll notice you're missing a lot of colors. Must look dull."

"Really, I can hardly tell in this grey monstrosity. It's drab as Leningrad suburbs in the seventies, how would I notice missing colors?" Aziraphale studied his sooty hand, read the lines of his palm. "The focus is odd -- shallow depth of field or somesuch, sharp and fuzzy in turns." He dropped the glasses back into place and sighed with relief.

"You'll find reading's a fucking chore to boot."

"You read your phone all the time."

"Well 's backlit, innit."

Aziraphale had got a knee crossed over an elbow somehow and hoped he could get it undone before the demon saw him. "Any ambulation advice would be welcome, I'm quite at ends," he grunted.

Crowley was pulling faces, not listening. "Hmm. New teeth. That's weird."

"Really, dear boy, a little help?"

"I don't see what's so bad about the floor. On your belly in the dust 'n all that, you remember." Despite the mocking tone he stepped closer and extended a hand, trying to sniff his way. He could never _not_ help Aziraphale. "For the record: human scent glands are absolute bollocks. I can't seem to smell you so sit tight. I'm trying the eyes again."

"It can't be _that_ bad, can it?"

"Ohoho, I assure you it can."

Issuing some possibly overdramatic huffs and growls of martyrdom, tensing up every muscle of the borrowed body in anticipation, Crowley peeled his hand from his face one finger at a time.

A wave of pain and nausea broke upon him. The demon squinted hard into the brightness and leaned with a moan to press his cheek against the cool wall. There wasn't even much to see; the hallway was brutal polished concrete like his penthouse. But the dim hall lights were too much to process even so.

Crowley's mind scrambled to make space for the rush of sensory information: new hues crowded into the gaps between colors he knew, tints and shades jostled. And everything was in focus at once. It was all _too clear_ , but too flat at the same time, each line and shape clamoring as if they mattered equally. Deprived of his reptilian autofocus on movement, it was impossible to separate garish colored shapes into distinct objects.

The world felt so _loud._

He focused on the color and shape of his own rosy hand for a long while, touching the signet ring, wondering if he could banish a headache from an unfamiliar corporation. Aziraphale watched from the floor with an open expression of wonder.

"Well......damn. Technicolor," murmured the demon.

"It must be quite something."

"Is this what it'd be like for you to turn into a mantis shrimp?"

Aziraphale beamed up at him. "We really must go to the aquarium like this one day, my dear."

Crowley peeled off the wall at last, blinking fast and hard. He looked up and all around, gaping, slowly processing flattened planes of chaotic color, til he beheld his own tangled body wearing a glowing angelic smile and _oh_ _how utterly bizarre_.

"Well that's wild. There you are." Crowley's voice broke. "You're...you're just down there, aren't you. ....You're me."

"I'm you."

It was beyond unsettling. Aziraphale made Crowley's face look so open, so vulnerable, so trusting. Crowley wondered what unpleasant scowls he was bringing to the angel's countenance and flinched at the thought.

Aziraphale pawed the air, trying to lay a hand on his knee and missing. "Now if you make any Twister jokes, my dear, we're calling this whole thing off and I shall never see your flat."

"Twister! That was one of mine, heh."

"I had no doubt. But I confess I don't know how to begin, it's like wrestling an octopus."

"I saw them do that once in the States, y'know. Sixties were weird. States're weird." Crowley grinned and leaned in to inspect the mess of limbs. "You sure you're not wearing the whole blessed body backwards? 'S almost what it looks like. Give the head a couple spins, why don't you."

And then Crowley froze.

"Er. Ngk. Ma'am."

Aziraphale looked over himself in surprise, wondering whether the corporation had made some spontaneous Crowley-typical changes in the swap. Then the angel twisted, marking the glory of his beautifully responsive spine, to see an elderly nightgowned neighbour staring from her doorway. "Oh! Good evening, ma'am."

"Sorry Mrs. Kensington, we were just...we got off on the wrong floor," said Crowley-as-Aziraphale.

"And fell," added Aziraphale-as-Crowley.

"But I'm --" started Crowley. "I mean, you remember Mr. Crowley here's your neighbor of course? From the top floor. Just had a bit of a night. I'm seeing him safe home. We -- he does in fact live here."

"I don't recall giving you my name, young man," she croaked at Crowley-as-Aziraphale from behind her door. _Fuck._

"Ah, nh, urnh" said Crowley.

"Oh, I told him when we got off the lift, this is Mrs. Kensington's floor, I said," Aziraphale piped up. And damned if he wasn't putting a convincingly carefree tipsy slur on it.

"Was something wrong with your...eyes?" she ventured. _DOUBLE fuck._ How long was she there? Had she seen Aziraphale glasses-off?

"Ngk --"

"You should know that we're on quite a lot of drugs, Mrs. Kensington."

Aziraphale didn't even flinch as he said it. He was managing the accent and the wicked grin too. Crowley gawked. It occurred to him that while Aziraphale was a terrible actor, he was a very practiced Liar.

The angel freed his left foot from the limbtangle and smiled down at it proudly.

Mrs. Kensington nodded, wide-eyed, and began to retreat into her flat. "Well it's after midnight gentlemen, do keep it down if you would," she whispered hoarsely. When she shut her door the distinct sound of the deadbolt and chain followed.

The angel and the demon snorted silent gasping laughter for a good long while.

"Help me up then?" stage-whispered Aziraphale.

Crowley offered his hand, somewhat robotically (spine - shoulder - elbow - wrist, in order), and the angel reached for it but missed by several inches. "Depth perception's off?" the demon asked.

"Seems to be."

"Come on, one limb at a time, get them sorted. Your feet against mine."

Crowley planted his sturdy corporation's feet, bent his knees, and reached out with both hands. Squared-off symmetry felt bizarre and his whole self rejected it. But this absurd pose was well-practiced back in their Wessex years, and Aziraphale recognized it straightaway -- when burdened with a suit of armor, getting up after a fall was a partnered exercise. The angel braced his snakeskin feet against the demon's proper shoes, toes to toes, and they gripped each other's forearms. Crowley leaned back hard to counterbalance the rise.

Their first attempts looked as ungainly as if they _were_ in full plate armor.

"Just -- don't muscle everything so damn much," hissed Crowley, fighting another laughing spell. "Balance with me. It's about momentum, not power."

"Grace, you mean. Never my strong suit I'm afraid." With one more pull the angel in the demon skin was finally up, knees wobbling like a fawn, trying ineptly to brush himself off. He kept flicking his elbows and wrists too hard and missing the targeted debris.

"Nonsense angel, you're full of grace."

"Not graceful. I'm gracious perhaps. _You're_ graceful. I'm not sure how I walk in my own corporation; I'll never manage yours."

"Aaah, never say never. You learned the gavotte and saved the world." Crowley began circling, tracing his familiar prowl in the wrong body, around the wrong body. "Takes humans five years to learn how to eat breakfast. If we don't take to this in five minutes we shouldn't be surprised. Damned cocky to think we could pull it off so easily. Hubris, really."

He ran soft hands over his own angled shoulders, lanky arms and skinny hips as if they belonged to a mannequin, prodding and shaking at how it sat all wrong on Aziraphale's soul. It looked like a shirt buttoned to the wrong button. Crowley brushed stray ash and cinders off the back of his jacket.

The angel cocked his head. "It's so strange to watch you steer me."

Crowley made eye contact, only he couldn't because of the glasses, could he, and that made him scowl. He hadn't been on the _outside_ of them before. Aziraphale clocked exactly what had happened and stifled a giggle.

"All right, advice. It seems -- hmm." Crowley kept his voice low and gentle. "I think it doesn't respond well to...control. Nor force. It's rebellious, right? You have to master Mister Newton's laws, make them work for you -- pull and don't push. Think swinging pendulums and counterweights rather than pistons. Jujitsu instead of karate. Y'know?" The angel stared blankly, uncomprehending. "What do you do that's balanced instead of -- I don't know, an effort? Ever do yoga or surf or skateboard or anything?"

Now the angel looked truly panicked, biting not-his-lip.

Then the recollection hit Crowley. "Oh! Y'know your saber fighting stance?"

Aziraphale abruptly dropped his center of gravity to float on his knees over a perfect wide footing. This he knew reflexively, and could never un-know. Footwork. Crowley pushed on his chest with an index finger, then with a palm -- he was stable as Uluru.

"Well that looks fucking _nothing_ like me but you're vertical, so we'll start there soldier boy. Feel okay?" He snapped to call the lift back and it arrived with an obliging _bing_.

"Much better, thank you," the angel whispered, rolling his shoulders and stretching out his neck as they entered. As an experiment he raised his arm into a swordless high line riposte, then repeated it over and over, trying to calibrate how far his elbow flew every time. The lift bore them to the ground floor.

"You were always better with swords than I was, angel."

"Only the ones I didn't give away."

The lift doors opened and Aziraphale froze, manifesting his Overthinking Forehead Wrinkle. It looked odd on the wrong face. Crowley stepped into the lobby and tried to look back over his shoulder, only his spine was too rigid and slow. He made an awkward full-torso twist on his legs.

"Coming, angel?"

"This won't -- I can't -- I can't just walk with a swordfighting stance, that's the opposite of what you do. Your feet land so close together, but you never fall over, you're like a-a-a stiletto. Is that the right word? No. It's -- -- oh now you've gone all wrong too."

Crowley was all wrong. He was _leaning_. One hand dropped behind him, the other stuffed in a pocket sweeping back his coat, hips cocked in a sexy contrapposto, a smoldering glare. Aziraphale straightened up all symmetrical and clasped long fretful hands. Their everyday tableau, bizarrely inverted.

The lift doors closed. Crowley threw an arm out to block them, but even with his arm stuck in a door he looked nonchalant, scornful, and hot. It was altogether inappropriate.

"Come on, angel. Move your bones. Nothing for it but to go practice."

"How long will this take," moaned Aziraphale, managing a few stiff steps into the white mirrored foyer.

Crowley shrugged. "'S just like playing some first-person triple-A platformer with a new controller. Physics may be weird at first, but we'll get the hang of it after some dull tutorials and fetch quests."

"Well!" the angel scoffed. "I suppose I know what each of those words taken _individually_ means."

Crowley tried to make an Aziraphale face. He aimed for stern but overshot into Blue Steel. "It means we need to train and then try. We teach each other the basics, we practice, then we go on a pointless errand or something."

Aziraphale huffed and perfectly executed Crowley's trick of a legible eyeroll behind sunglasses. "There _cannot_ be anyone in your flat so soon. We only just left Tadfield. Let's just go practice upstairs."

"That wasn't half bad! Voice and the face at least, your knees still look ridiculous. _No_ , we are not passing through my possibly demon-infested door until we can at least walk in these bodies. Come on, what's our errand." Crowley paced the marble floor ever so demonically.

"Buy a book."

"At one A.M.?"

"All right, feed the ducks."

"They're asleep. And that's too bloody public."

"Everything's too public, this is London. Get a drink."

"We have _got_ to stay sober tonight. Help me out here, angel. Oh and look, you've made it a full ten steps without falling over." The demon stopped pacing to appraise his friend in the gleaming lobby lights.

And reeled back as if shot with a paintball gun.

"Oh fuck me, my hair color is _fantastic."_

Aziraphale blushed and couldn't help smiling. "Did you not know that? You must have known that."

"Well I knew it had to be sexy but I never _saw_ it like this before. That's -- that's! And that collar! That's red. THAT is red. That's _red?!"_

Crowley was slinking in circles around himself again, enchanted. He reached in to touch the collar with a fingertip, backed away to see it in context, then stalked around the whole package clockwise again. "Even the black is different, it's more. Black. This is all so much more. I'm. Wow." The sensory upgrade was transforming from a burden into a thrill, given a little time and some proper lighting.

Aziraphale raised his dark glasses a moment and squinted into the long mirrored lobby wall. Sure enough, his own flaming hair appeared to be some value of dull sepia. The scarlet accent on his jacket was a perfect neutral grey. The potted plants by the lift looked slate blue instead of green.

"So then you never appreciated how very -- well that's. Hmm." Aziraphale dropped the glasses and swallowed a comment that could have sounded pitying or condescending, some vaguely ableist nonsense about 'what you've been missing.' No use voicing a thought so pointless and insulting. Not when he could revel in Crowley's joyous self-discovery instead. Aziraphale could never have borne being looked at this way in his own body, but it was utterly charming to see Crowley see himself. He stretched a little taller, raising his chin and dropping a hip, preening just a bit under scrutiny.

"How do you ever choose clothing then?" the angel asked. Crowley was behind, before, circling, glowing.

"Jus' make it black. If I need to manifest an accent I know how colors make people feel. 'S really all I need to know."

"But seeing it's different."

"Seeing it is -- well just look at you! _Fuck!"_

"But how did you know your coat was black and red, not...navy and green or what have you?"

"Oh, my wardrobe wouldn't _daaaare_ disappoint me," purred the demon. He broke off his prowl to reach in and smooth the lapels of his black and now-verified-to-be-red jacket. "And how _well_ it's done! I need to look at the flat. My plants!"

Crowley was having conniptions of delight. A notion dawned in Aziraphale's mind.

"Crowley, hold onto this. Remember this."

"Oh, I _am,_ angel, the colors --"

"I mean, when you pretend to be me. Remember this feeling."

Crowley halted, glancing at his reflection in the wall. A shadow of wariness passed over his face.

"That too, that shift!" exulted Aziraphale. "Yes, _all of this_ exactly. This is how you can be me."

Crowley closed his eyes to replay what had just happened: there he'd been, admiring himself, rapt in vainglory. That was embarrassing enough. But to an observer -- in that vast mirror -- something else had transpired, something entirely inappropriate. It looked like a blonde heavenly angel had been circling a bewildered dirty demon, showering him with adoration.

Both scenes came to an anxious halt when witnessed.

Crowley banished his exuberance in a flash. He pulled a familiar curtain of apathetic cool over his demeanor and hunkered down. "Not sure whatchyou mean."

Aziraphale put hands in his pockets. Like Crowley would. Which helped him to relax his shoulders, like Crowley would. "Okay, stay with me here." Oh, and there was the voice, lower, smokier. The angel was starting to get it. "We're gonna tease this out. Say that again, the way you should."

"Say what again?" Crowley felt caught off balance. He straightened up out of his prowling pose. Talking to himself was strange.

"You said 'I'm not sure what you mean.' But you said it like Crowley. You're Aziraphale," the angel drawled, "say it like Aziraphale."

So apparently the scene was beginning. And for now Aziraphale was the director. Uncertain where this was headed -- and seeing no way forward but to obey -- Crowley paused and focused. He set his shoulders back, squared instead of raked. He spread his weight evenly onto both feet and settled into all that noxious symmetry. Finally he clasped his hands together and lifted his chin with an earnest expression, all caution and control.

"I'm not sure what you mean, my dear," he said.

It _sounded_ right.

Their voices had been wrong all night, but this sounded right.

He was rewarded by a knowing half-smile from his own face. "Riiiight," said Aziraphale, eyebrow cocked, nodding slowly. "I'll tell you what I mean. Try to keep up. What are you feeling right now, angel?"

 _Angel._ _That's what it sounds like_.

"I suppose --" Crowley was genuinely hesitant to share, felt tempted to lie. Just like Aziraphale, he thought. "I feel -- apprehensive? A bit caught out, as it were? I'm not entirely sure what conclusions you've drawn from this episode that would seem to, eh, shed light on our situation." That's it, that was the cadence of speech. Never an imprecise word. Perfect prevarication with a smile.

"So you feel apprehensive. Anxious. Good." Aziraphale set his feet shoulder-width apart, turned one toe out, and _leaned_. This was new. "An' how'd you feel before, when you were, y'know, adulating?" He indicated himself with a leer and a flourish, up and down.

Crowley choked. It was suddenly impossible to confess. How could the joy he'd reveled in seconds before taste so humiliating now? So foolish, praising himself; he knew what he was. His face fussed and fretted and he couldn't think of a thing to say. His hands churned.

Aziraphale took one step closer and shifted his weight. _Contrapposto._ "Angel?"

"I suppose I must have felt -- pride? Vanity?"

"Delight, angel. You were all pure unadulterated _delight_." Aziraphale leaned into him and told the truth. Crowley reared back from it instinctively, frowning and blinking hard. These eyes were maddeningly difficult to keep moist.

"You beheld the world in full color and you liked what you saw. You were curious, and you were happy, and you wanted _more."_ Aziraphale skulked closer, voice low and tempting, and he was really getting the feel for this, wasn't he, dear boy -- "But then something happ'ned."

Crowley -- no, Aziraphale, Crowley thought, shaking his head dizzily, _Aziraphale_ whirled on a snakeskin heel and stepped away. "Something took you from delighted to anxious in a flash. What was that?" He spun back and nailed Crowley in place with an expectant stare, sunglasses or no.

Crowley's heart pounded. He was beginning to see. Quite a lot, actually.

It was torture to find himself doubly reflected where there should have been golden eyes.

"You -- observed me," he hedged. "And you -- and that -- I felt as if I had been doing something. Well. Wrong. Even if I wasn't sure quite what." But he knew what. The angel had been circling the demon, looking and praising and even touching. An unbecoming fantasy unconsciously played out. Crowley's palms sweated and he clutched his waistcoat; he felt ill wondering what the angel must think of him now.

Aziraphale stepped uncomfortably close, looming over him, and pointed a sharp index finger to his chest to drive the point home. Crowley stopped breathing.

 _"Remember this delight._ Your utter delight, over tiny beautiful everyday things -- over sacred things -- and utterly un-angelic things -- remember your delight. Then remember how it is _always_ chased by the fear that there's something wrong with it. Wrong with you for having it. Fear that you'll lose or destroy what you delight in."

The looming abruptly ceased.

"And that's how you can be me," said Aziraphale, shrinking back into his own demure posture. Reverting to his own gentle voice.

Crowley stared mutely. His eyes felt odd again, burning, too moist now. He tried blinking fast to fix them but it didn't seem to help this time.

"Angel," said Aziraphale.

Crowley quivered. Were they still in character or not? Would it always be so shocking to be addressed that way? "Yes, my dear."

Aziraphale leaned again, cocked his head. Smirked just a little. "What if we live?"

"Hhhk -- ehhhhhhhhhhhhhh," said Crowley.

"What then?"

Crowley swallowed hard. "Are you -- are you trying to be me still or are we done with the scene?"

Aziraphale shrugged. "Doesn't matter." But Aziraphale never shrugged. And he never looked this relaxed. "What if we do it? What if we live?"

"Do you think we will?"

The angel opened his mouth wide to say something, but stopped. He twisted on his heel restlessly a few times, thinking, and abruptly changed the subject.

"You know, I said I wasn't hungry before, but I could actually go for a bite. Anything open 'round here?"

Crowley grimaced. "Not exactly the neighborhood for late night dining. There are some ridiculous posh bars and hotels with kitchens open."

"Shame. Could really go for something cheap and hearty. Food truck falafel or a pizza or the like."

"You? _Pizza?_ Is that my corrupting influence, you think?"

Crowley felt surprisingly stirred by the idea of food. He wondered whether Aziraphale's soul and body both retained the habit of hunger separately. It was odd to imagine them eating a full meal together, but tonight he really thought he could.

"I enjoy street food from time to time. Nothing corrupt about it." Aziraphale faced the mirror wall again and practiced sauntering toward himself, then along the wall, studying his legs. "Remember that dumpling counter in Kiev? Nothing like wheat 'n' meat at midnight."

"Well we could cab it somewhere. Or just practice our walks til we stumble on a Nando's." Crowley watched his own hips walking away, trying to break down the movement. His fascination was guarded after Aziraphale's unforgettable tutorial, but he still spared a thought, privately, for his absolutely fantastic rear end.

"I think -- hmm." Crowley caught him up and started demonstrating like a dance instructor in the mirror. "You're running your feet in parallel tracks like you're skiing. They should go down a single line like a tightrope." Aziraphale tried it and nearly fell over, laughing. Crowley caught him by the elbows. "Shit, I've gone too specific now, haven't I? Maybe you should just keep not thinking about it."

"No no, it's all right. Your instruction is most welcome, my dear. I mean --" he realized he'd lost Crowley's accent while focusing on his feet, and tried again. "I mean I'll get it. Quit harping."

"Never thought about this before in my life but I see it now. See, your body floats evenly between both feet like you're fencing or boxing, right? Stable." Crowley walked a few steps like Aziraphale, catching his rhythm, strong and steady. "But I put all my weight on one leg at a time. You've seen how supermodels do it? It's like they only _have_ one leg, then they only have the other. Like damn flamingoes." Crowley demonstrated stiffly, foot-ankle-knee-spine, and it looked bizarre in creamy high-waisted vintage trousers.

"I _like_ flamingoes," crooned Aziraphale. "I don't believe I've ever paid any attention to supermodels. I mean: dunno as I've ever watched supermodels." He crossed the lobby again, still teetering.

"You've seen drag queens though?"

"Of course my dear, but some humility is in order. One mustn't attempt to fly before crawling."

Crowley laughed at that. "Of course. But really, try standing on one foot entirely, then the other, just do it in a straight line heel to toe. ...No no no, stop trying to force the hips to do things, ignore them. They'll sort themselves out, they're just for counterbalance."

"From the outside the hips look like the key to the whole thing."

"They really aren't. Just a pleasant distraction from where the real work's happening. You know how that goes. ...Yes, yes that's _good!_ Walk a tightrope and the rest follows." Crowley clapped his hands together in triumph; this was going far better than he imagined. "Walk it angrier now, like you're stomping on something you don't like with every step _. Yes_. See how the hips follow instead of lead? That's how you keep your balance. ......Now quit gazing in the mirror at your blessed arse, lovely though it be, and look where you're going. Not at your feet, ahead. Shit, that's good!"

"Get back to doing my voice, Angel. Sounds weird when you curse."

"You're doing marvellously. Shall we go for something to eat, my dear?"

"Fine by me."

Aziraphale reached the lobby door and paused, running some calculus on how Crowley would physically navigate the exit. But he didn't have to; Crowley slipped beside him and opened the door with a bow and a gentle smile. "After you." Aziraphale glared, smirked, and stepped out to the curb. He wasn't quite stalking yet, but it was coming along. On the sidewalk he pulled out his terribly expensive phone and stared at it -- it seemed the thing to do, though he had no idea how to work it.

He really might pull this off, thought Crowley from inside the glass door.

And wished there were any wood to knock on within reach.

Aziraphale tried the single round button on the gleaming phone, seeing no more obvious point of entry. The device woke up, scanned his face, and obligingly resumed Crowley's game of Spelltower. The angel was immediately drawn in. And if he forgot to keep the celestial glow of pure joy off his face as he discovered a new form of wordplay, well, he could be forgiven that.

With the angel distracted Crowley's face fell into a mask of dark melancholy. He turned soberly away from the door and confronted the mirror up close. Crowley had avoided looking at this borrowed body in front of his friend. No sunglasses, for one, and these eyes communicated far too much. That could be a problem with Aziraphale. Could be catastrophic in Heaven.

Take now, for example, as those gorgeous round angelic irises burned with wrath at whoever had made Aziraphale so afraid of his own _delight_.

Think loving and fearful thoughts, Crowley told himself, trying to channel his dark mood into a prim little fret. He supposed the fear wouldn't be difficult to muster if he really returned to Heaven. It would feel...not good, going back up there. He'd spent millennia mellowing his self-loathing into a harmless background hum -- he knew what he was, and it mostly didn't bother him, not even when Aziraphale poked at it. Well, mostly not.

But returning to the fold, even in this body, was sure to bring it all roaring back to the surface. And he couldn't control these lovely sensitive eyes.

He stared into them now, up close, and felt utterly lost. The blue was so much deeper than he'd known, amplified by reds and greens. His skin, his hair, so enchantingly soft and rich in color. He could try to tame the unruly curls of silver-gold. Or just touch them. Later. Alone.

Shaking off the thought in shame, Crowley inspected his posture, his countenance, trying to manifest the mood he'd have to sustain Upstairs. _Concentrate, you fool._ Humble, apologetic, patient, kind, longsuffering -- "Do let's be reasonable about this," he imagined himself saying to an archangel mildly. It took much focused thought to open the muscles around his forehead and jaw. This face resisted him. He'd assumed Aziraphale was an open book, but perhaps the angel hid more than Crowley had reckoned? Changing expressions felt like molding stiff clay, it required tremendous will.

But oh, how readily this body responded to the order to smile. Yes, there it was, that luminous smile! So easy to summon. And now Crowley could behold it directly as long as he liked without glancing away or feigning disgust. Like staring into the sun. He could even pretend the angel was smiling at him. _Remember your delight._

He wanted to hear Aziraphale say something, smiling like that, so he spoke a single word to himself:

"Yes."

Crowley -- no wait, Aziraphale, it won't do to keep getting confused, thought Crowley -- was returning to the door. "Angel? You coming?"

"Of course, sorry to lollygag. I was rehearsing with the benefit of the mirror." On his way out the door he flashed his brilliant new smile at his friend, and it grew even wider when he saw it hit its mark like a javelin. Aziraphale rocked back a step with a dazed expression. _Take that,_ thought Crowley with a shiver of self-satisfaction, _now you know how it feels._

"This device is really something," said Aziraphale of the phone he was clutching with two hands like a paperback.

"If you look at my browser history I swear I'll bite you after, fangs and all."

"I have no idea what that means. I can therefore make no promise not to do that thing you said."

"Rrrrrrrchkg," rumbled Crowley.

"Can _I_ do the fangs, d'you think?"

"NO! Nonono, snake stuff is _absolutely_ off limits. Give me that."

Aziraphale passed the phone over and Crowley swiped it grumpily. Then he was subjected to the indignity of having to shove the phone back into the angel's face to unlock it. Crowley closed apps and deleted histories with a furious glower the likes of which Aziraphale had never worn before. He did not like surrendering his phone.

At length he sidled up shoulder to shoulder for some tutoring.

"So this is the actual phone part of the phone. No matter what the device is doing, you can get back to the telephone like...so." He stroked the screen through its paces, Aziraphale nodded. "You can travel through it as well while it's connected, but if the other party hangs up you're fucked. So if you're trying to do that with me for Satan's sake warn me. Now. Hmm. If you see a call that's likely from me, you answer by hitting the button that looks like this. If you need to _not_ talk to me, if it's dangerous, don't answer; let it ring. And if you need to call me, you go to the phone app, same pattern again here, then touch this picture. Me. That'll ring up the flat."

It had been Crowley's most recent call of course, to himself.

Just beneath that in his list of calls: Bookshop. Bookshop. Bookshop. Bookshop. Shadwell. Bookshop. Bookshop.

Crowley blanched, stomach twisting violently. He smelled smoke.

The concrete rolled under his feet as he sank for a moment into the magnitude of the loss -- all the first editions, the autographs, the relics, the misprints, the memories, and who knew what secrets. He looked up at Aziraphale in dismay, searching for a reaction.

The sunglasses betrayed nothing. _Bless it._

The angel was silent and stonefaced. Crowley closed the phone and handed it over. The angel pocketed it without looking.

"Crowley," he ventured.

"Mm."

"How will I be you?"

Crowley snorted. "You seem to be doing just fine. There's not much to me, really. 'S all in the walk."

"Bullshit."

The word hit Crowley like a brick but in a good way, rattling his bones with a spicy shudder of pleasure. A jolt of profound hope wrapped up in a curse. He laughed heartily. "Who're you and what have you done with my angel?"

Aziraphale beamed with pride, knowing he had nailed the delivery, even as his glowing smile rather undermined the profanity. "I told you, I _can_ swear, I just choose not to. Mostly."

"The trick is not to grin like a schoolboy when you say a naughty word. Still, color me impressed."

"Really, Crowley, I mean it. How can I be you? What makes Anthony J. Crowley tick?"

"I don't know, sloth? Booze? Inventing and then torturing telemarketers?"

"But what's my _motivation_."

Crowley frowned and thought for several seconds.

Suddenly, abandoning any pretense of being an angel, he stalked fiercely into his friend's space -- bristling up and forcing him backward, eyes to glasses, nose to nose.

"When you get to Hell," growled Crowley, "your motivation is to keep one particular featherbrained angel safe. That's the beginning and the end of it. That's all you want. That's how you be me."

Crowley whirled and strode back up the walk. Aziraphale uncoiled, breathing hard, pulse visibly hammering in his neck. He shook his head as if to clear it.

Crowley stopped at the door and sighed deeply. Had he said more than he meant to say? Could it even matter, with so much on the line over the next few hours? He bowed his head and felt an ancient nagging impulse to pray. That made him smile wryly at his feet. Did that come wholecloth with this corporation too, the impulse to reach out to Her?

Crowley knew who he wanted to reach out to.

"Angel!"

Aziraphale looked up from a deep study of the sidewalk.

"Let's order in. I think we can do this. Let's go up."

"Are you..." the angel took a cautious step forward, swallowing. "Are you quite sure, my dear?"

"There's nobody there yet. I'm certain. Can't be. And if there is -- we'll handle it."

Aziraphale paused, no longer playing demon, letting his face go all vulnerable and open again. Crowley could hardly bear it. He stepped closer, gently this time. He willed his borrowed features to communicate the fondness he felt.

"I am _entirely_ sure of you, angel. You can do this. We can. We'll go up now and we'll be okay, and I'll order you whatever pizza you want, from anyplace in the city." Crowley reached for his own bony shoulder to give it a tentative squeeze. "We're home for tonight."

Aziraphale remained motionless and unreadable behind his sunglasses as he drew a slow breath in and out. Crowley squeezed his shoulder again awkwardly and then stuffed both hands in his pockets, waiting. After a very long while, Aziraphale nodded once.

"Come along then." Crowley held out his hand.

Aziraphale took it, and gazed openly as they interlaced fingers. He allowed himself to be led to the front door. There seemed to be no more trouble with the depth perception or the walking, even if his gait was too angelic in this unguarded moment.

Crowley grasped the stainless door handle and paused. "You sure you're okay with this whole thing? It's a bit, ah...yeah. Much." He scuffed a foot. "I really can't ask you to do this for me. This is way outside the scope of the Agreement."

"I'm sure we're well beyond all that by now."

"Still."

Aziraphale stared through the glass at the lift. Upstairs, Downstairs -- they both knew what lay ahead. When the angel finally found his voice it was steady:

"If I think of you doing this for me, my dear, I'm appalled. I can't stomach how you might feel or what you might face up there. But when I think of doing this for you, I don't hesitate for a moment."

"Angel. It's _Hell."_

"I understand it's unthinkable for you to let me try. But I assure you, if it would save your skin I'd gladly descend to the ninth circle and beyond." He chuckled darkly. "What waits at the center came up to roar at us this afternoon anyway. We've _already_ stared down the King of Hell."

Crowley shifted his weight back and forth, clinging to the door pull.

"How could I ever let you" he said softly.

Aziraphale pushed up his sunglasses, and sweet relief sank straight into Crowley's soul. He vowed never to leave them on in private again.

"Have faith, dearest." _Dearest. Angel._ "Or let me have it for you. She has allowed us this far and given us a signpost for the last turning. Either She's done with us or She is not. If She is, there's nothing either of us can do but offer thanks that we stood against Armaggedon, and ask for a swift end. If She isn't done with us --" he took a deep breath and smiled -- "well then we'd better put our best feet forward."

A number of expressions flashed through Crowley's eyes, the subtle sort that would have been disguised by his glasses. He'd had no practice hiding all these little feelings since Rome. But he found no judgment on Aziraphale's face.

"Well. I admit that trusting Her doesn't hold much appeal, angel. But I'll trust you."

He drew the door open at last and ushered his angel in. As they crossed the lobby Aziraphale began to get his saunter back. "And you can trust Her for me, angel," Crowley continued, "and transitive property, I'll be trusting Her through you and blah blah blah et cetera. Figures putting my best foot forward would actually be your foot in the end. Looking good, by the by."

He took one last glance in the mirror, squared his shoulders, straightened his bow tie, and hit the call button. Aziraphale tapped his sunglasses back down and _leaned_. They could do this. The lift chimed and they boarded again, feeling years wiser than they'd been only minutes before.

"Oi! Angel --" exclaimed Aziraphale, in Crowley's accent. "Security cameras?"

"Don't fret my dear, they haven't been allowed to pick up the likes of us since day one."

The demon rang the penthouse floor: number ten. They turned to smile at one another as the doors closed.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have socials to promote this, so if you liked it, comment or recommend it! Thanks so much!
> 
> This is continued from the end of 'Recounting the Deeds of the Day' (the bus ride) but both can stand alone as well. https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/51125932 It's still in progress, subscribe if you are enjoying it!
> 
> I'm in love with AO3 and the brilliant people here, it's been lovely to meet you and read the things you write.
> 
> I am a brand new Tumblr baby at https://charlottemadison42.tumblr.com/. Say hi!


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